‘What will Rachael do if O’Reilly ditches her?’ I asked as we drove back.
‘What does any girl do? She has to nail her man. If she doesn’t …’ He spread his hands upwards underneath a half-circle of the steering wheel. ‘You might as well come to the Ball. It’ll be twice as much fun now that we know what’s afoot.’
‘I’ll not go. For me it’s just another reason to stay away.’
The dress suits came in flat cardboard boxes on the evening bus the Friday of the Ball. Tulips came in similar boxes for the altar. O’Reilly changed into his suit as soon as he came home from work and went to the hotel to have drinks with subcontractors on the bridge. There had plainly been a falling out between him and Cronin. Ryan and Cronin waited till after tea to change. They’d never worn dress suits before and were restless with excitement, twisting themselves in mirrors, laughing nervously as they paraded in front of the McKinneys. They found time slow to pass while waiting to pick up their girls. Ryan was bringing the girl who took the calls in their office.
I went with them to the Midland Bar, where we had three rounds of hot whiskeys. Still it wasn’t late enough to leave when we got back, and they went alone to some other bar, this time taking their cars. O’Reilly had taken his car to the hotel. I’d meant to read, but when left alone I found that I wasn’t able to because of the excitement and the whiskey. I was half tempted to go back up to the Midland’s with old Paddy McKinney when he went for his nightly jar, and glad when Mrs McKinney came in soon afterwards to join me at the fire.
‘You didn’t go to the Ball after all?’
‘No. I didn’t go.’
‘You may be as well off. Old Paddy was a great one for dances and balls in his day, would never miss one. And he got me. And I got him. That’s all it ever seems to have amounted to,’ she said with vigorous incomprehension. Later, I tried to ask her if she’d let me have O’Reilly’s room when he left, but she’d give no firm answer, knowing it’d be easier to let the room than to fill the bed in the upstairs room, and, as if to make up for her evasion, she made delicious turkey sandwiches and a big pot of tea instead of the usual glass of milk and biscuits.
The screeching of a car to a violent stop beneath the window woke me some time in the early hours. A door banged but I could hear no voices. A key turned in the front door. I sat up as footsteps started to come up the stairs. O’Reilly opened the door. His oiled hair was dishevelled as was the suit and bow.
‘I want you to convey a message for me when they return.’ He had to concentrate fiercely to frame the words.
‘Where are the others?’
‘They’re still at the Ball. I abandoned them there.’
‘Is Rachael there, too?’ I asked cautiously.
‘The last I saw of her she was dancing with Cronin. Cronin made a speech. He got up on the stage for a special request and took the microphone. It was most embarrassing. One should never associate with uncultivated people. I decided that the gentlemanly thing to do was to leave at once on my own. So I’m here.’ He stood solid as a stone on the floor, but it was obvious from the effort of concentration and small hiccups that he was extraordinarily drunk.
‘Tell them that I’m not to be disturbed. Tell them not to go banging on the door. The door will be locked.’
‘I’ll tell them.’
‘I’m most obliged. I’ll recompense you in due course.’
I heard him move about for a little while downstairs. Then his door closed.
The others were so long in coming that I was beginning to think they must have met with some accident. They made much noise. I heard them try O’Reilly’s door several times, calling out before they came upstairs. Cronin was wild with drink, Ryan just merry and foolish.
‘Bloody O’Reilly got home. He’s locked the door.’ Cronin staggered violently as he spoke.
‘He was up here,’ I said. ‘He asked not to be disturbed when you came home.’
‘Not to be disturbed.’ Cronin glared.
‘I’m just giving the message.’
‘That’s the notice he has hung on the doorknob,’ Ryan giggled.
‘I made a speech,’ Cronin said. ‘A most impressive speech.’
‘What sort of speech?’ I asked as gently as possible in the hope of diverting the drilling stare.
‘That it was the bounden duty of every single man to get married. Of course I was referring to O’Reilly in particular, but it had universal significance as well. To show that I was serious I proposed that I myself be married immediately. This week if possible.’
Any temptation to laugh was out. It would be far too dangerous.
‘Of course you make no effort to get married. You just lie here in bed,’ he continued. The stare would not be diverted, and then suddenly he jumped on me in the bed, but his movements were so slow and drunken that all I had to do was draw my knees upwards and to the side for him to roll across the bed out on the floor the far side. This was repeated three times. ‘Make no effort. Just lie there,’ he kept saying, and each time the breathing grew heavier. I was afraid the farce could go on for some time, until, rising, he caught sight of himself in the wardrobe mirror.
‘I’ve never seen myself in a dress suit before. I am most impressed. Instead of giving it back, I think I’ll buy it. I’ll wear it in my professional capacity. The farmers will be most impressed.’ Dress suits seemed to be having a formalizing effect on speech.
I used the diversion to rise and dress. Then another car drew up outside. Looking out the window, Ryan, who all this time had stood there grinning and smiling, said, ‘Rachael’s back. She’s looking to get O’Reilly to drive her home.’
‘How did she get this far?’
‘With Johnny from the mill and his girl. She wouldn’t come with us. They had to leave Johnny’s girl home first. We’d better go down. They have no key.’
‘It is our duty to go down,’ Cronin said.
I sat for a long time on the bed’s edge before following them down.
A piece of cardboard hung from the doorknob of O’Reilly’s room. I lifted it and read please do not disturb.
Rachael was sitting at the corner of the small table in the kitchen, and with her was Johnny Byrne, the foreman of the mill. She was smoking, plainly upset, but it made her the more beautiful. She’d pulled a jacket over her bare shoulders, and silver shoes showed beneath the long yellow dress. Ryan and Cronin had taken Mrs McKinney’s cooked turkey from the fridge and placed it on the high wooden table. Cronin was waving a turkey leg about as he inspected himself in Paddy McKinney’s shaving mirror.
‘It’s no trouble now for me to run you the rest of the way home,’ Johnny was saying to Rachael.
‘No thanks, Johnny.’
‘We’ll get him up now. It is our duty,’ Cronin suddenly said.
We heard him rattling the doorknob in the hallway. ‘Get up, O’Reilly. Rachael’s here. You have to run her home.’
After a lot of rattling and a threat to break down the door, a hollow voice sounded within the room as if spoken through a sheet by a man whose life was fast ebbing. ‘Please inspect notice and go away,’ at which point Rachael went out and ushered Cronin back into the kitchen. He was amazingly docile in her hands. Ryan was peeling the turkey breastbone clean with his fingers.
‘You must leave him alone. It’s between us.’ Rachael moved him gently back towards the turkey on the table.
‘Even if you got him up now he’d hardly be fit to drive you home,’ Johnny Byrne said.
‘We could give him coffee,’ and after a time she added, ‘I’ll try just once more.’ She called him, asking him to let her into the room. All that came in the silence were loud, simulated snores.
‘It’d only take a minute to run you home,’ Johnny said when she came back into the kitchen.
‘No, Johnny. I’ll wait. You should go home now. You won’t find till you have to go to work,’ and reluctantly, pausing a number of times, he rose and left. Having stripped the turkey cle
an, Cronin and Ryan fell asleep in chairs. In the garishly lit kitchen, I sat in Byrne’s place at the table. A foolish, sentimental, idle longing grew: to leave her home, to marry her, to bring up O’Reilly’s child with her in some vague, long vista of happiness; and after an hour I said, ‘I could get one of their car keys,’ indicating the sleeping inseminators, ‘and drive you home.’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll wait now till morning.’
She was there when Mrs McKinney came down to get the breakfasts in the morning, there to face her bustling annoyance at the disturbances of the rowdy night turn to outrage at the sight of the pillaged turkey on the table.
‘I’m sorry to be here. I’m waiting for Peter to get up. He was drunk and locked the door. He took me to the dance and he has to take me home,’ she explained with a quiet firmness.
‘Was it him did for the turkey too?’ The old woman made no effort to conceal her anger.
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘It must be those other bowsies, then.’
In her long yellow dress and silver shoes Rachael helped tidy the kitchen and prepare for the breakfasts until the old woman was completely pacified, and the two sat down like ancient allies to scalding tea and thickly buttered toast. Through the thin wall they heard O’Reilly’s alarm clock go off.
‘They’re not worth half the trouble they put us to,’ the old woman grumbled.
They heard him rise, unlock the door, go upstairs to the bathroom, and as he came down Rachael went out to meet him in the hallway. It was several minutes before she returned to the kitchen, and then it was to borrow a kettle of boiling water. Outside on the street it was a white world. The windscreen of O’Reilly’s car was frosted over, the doorhandles stuck.
‘You were right to make him leave you home. They should be all learned a bit of manners,’ Mrs McKinney said approvingly as she took the empty kettle back, the noise of the car warming up coming from outside.
O’Reilly was a long time leaving Rachael home, and when he came back he checked that no one had been looking for him on the site, reported sick, and went to bed. He did not get up till the following morning.
When Mrs McKinney saw the state of Cronin and Ryan later that morning, she decided to postpone the business of the turkey for a day or two. They tried to drink a glass of Bols eggnog in the Midland’s as a cure before work, but it made them violently ill, and they had to go back to bed.
The town had not had such a piece of scandal since some members of the Pioneer excursion to Knock had to be taken from the bus in Longford for disorderly conduct three years before. Circling the Virgin’s Shrine in a solid downpour while responding with Hail Marys to the electronic Our Fathers had proved too severe a trial for three recent recruits.
I was stopped on my way to school, was stopped again on my way back, to see if I could add anything to the news of the night, but everything, down to the devastated turkey, seemed to be already known.
Rachael and O’Reilly were married in early January. Only Cronin was invited to the wedding from the Bridge Restaurant, he and O’Reilly having become great pals again. He told us that it was quiet and very pleasant, just a few people, the way weddings should be. We made a collection in the restaurant, and with the money Mrs McKinney bought a mantel clock in a mahogany frame and had all our names inscribed on a bright metal scroll. After a honeymoon in London, the new couple went to Galway, where he took up his position with the County Council.
It was some years before Rachael and O’Reilly were seen again. A crowd up for the Christmas shopping saw them in Henry Street a Saturday morning before Christmas. They were both wearing sheepskin coats. Rachael’s coat fell to her ankles and a beautiful fair-haired child held her hand as they walked. She had lost her lean beauty but was still a handsome woman. A small boy rode on O’Reilly’s shoulders. The boy was pointing excitedly at the jumping monkeys on the pavement and the toy trumpets the sellers blew. Sometimes when they paused at the shops the mother would turn away from the glitter of the silver snow to smile on them both. They disappeared into Arnott’s before anybody had gathered enough courage to greet them.
Within a decade O’Reilly had risen to be a county engineer, and a few years afterwards became the county manager. Everywhere local officials gather it is heard whispered along the grapevine, as if to ease the rebuke of his rise over older and less forceful, less lucky men, that O’Reilly would not be half the man he is if he had not married Rachael.
Crossing the Line
A few of the last leaves from the almond saplings that stood at intervals along the pavement were being scattered about under the lamps as he met me off the late bus from the city. He was a big man, prematurely bald, and I could feel his powerful tread by my side as we crossed the street to a Victorian cottage, an old vine above its doorway as whimsical there in the very middle of the town as a patch of thyme or lavender.
‘The house is tied to the school,’ he explained. ‘That’s why it’s not been bulldozed. We don’t have any rent to pay.’
His wife looked younger than he, the faded blonde hair and bird face contrasting with her full body. There was something about her of materials faded in the sun. They had two pubescent daughters in convent skirts and blouse, and a son, a few years older than the girls, with the mother’s bird-like face and blonde hair, a frail presence beside his father.
‘Oliver here will be going back to the uni in a few days. He’s doing chemical engineering. He got first-class honours last year, first in his class,’ he explained matter-of-factly, to the mother’s obvious pleasure and the discomfiture of the son. ‘The fees are stiff. They leave things fairly tight just now, but once he’s qualified he’ll make more in a few years than you and I will ever make in a whole bloody lifetime of teaching. These two great lumps are boarders in The Bower in Athlone. They have a weekend off.’ He spoke about his daughters as if he looked upon them already as other men’s future gardens.
‘We’d give you tea but the Archdeacon is expecting you. He wants you to have supper with him. I hope you like porridge. Whether you do or not, you better bolt it back like a man and say it was great. As long as you take to the stirabout he’ll see nothing much wrong with you. But were you to refuse it, all sorts of moral doubts might start to grow in his old head. He’s ninety-eight, the second oldest priest in the whole of Ireland, but he’ll tell you all this himself. I’d better leave you there now before he starts to worry. The one thing you have to remember is to address yourself like a boy to the stirabout.’
The wind had died a little outside. We walked up the wide street thronged with people in from the country for the late Saturday shopping. There were queues outside the butcher’s, the baker’s, within the chemist’s. Music came from some of the bars. Everywhere there was much greeting and stopping. Pale-faced children seemed to glide about between the shops in the shadow of their mothers. Some of them raised diffident hands or called, ‘Master Kennedy,’ to the big man by my side, and he seemed to know them all by name.
One rather well-dressed old man alone passed us in open hostility. It was in such marked contrast to the general friendliness that I asked, ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s a teacher from out the country. They don’t like me. I’m not in their bloody union. Are you in the INTO by any chance?’
‘They offered us a special rate before leaving college. Everybody joined.’
‘That’s your own business, of course. I never found it much use,’ he said irritably.
He left me outside the heavy iron gates of the presbytery. ‘Call in on your way back to tell us how you got on. Then I’ll bring you down to your digs.’
A light above the varnished door shone on white gravel and the thick hedge of laurel and rhododendron that appeared to hide a garden or lawn. A housekeeper led me into the front room where a very old white-haired priest sat over a coal fire.
‘You’re from the west – a fine dramatic part of the country, but no fit place at all to live, no d
epth of soil. Have you ever heard of William Bulfin?’ he asked as soon as I was seated by his side.
‘Rambles in Eirinn?’ I remembered.
‘For my ordination I was given a present of a Pierce bicycle. I rode all around Ireland that summer on the new Pierce with a copy of the Rambles. It was a very weary-dreary business pedalling through the midlands, in spite of the rich land. I could feel my heart lift, though, when at last I got to the west. It’s still no place to live. Have you met Mr Kennedy?’
‘Yes, Father. He showed me here.’
‘Does he find you all right?’
‘I think so, Father.’
‘That’s good enough for me, then. Do you think you’ll be happy here?’
‘I think so, Father.’
‘I expect you’ll see out my time. I thought the last fellow would, but he left. I dislike changes. I’m ninety-eight years old. There’s only one priest older in the whole of Ireland, a Father Michael Kelly from the Diocese of Achonry. He’s a hundred-and-two. You might have noticed the fuss when he reached the hundred?’
‘I must have missed it, Father.’
‘I would have imagined that to be difficult. I thought it excessive, but I take a special interest in him. Kelly is the first name I look for every morning on the front of the Independent.’ He smiled slyly.
The housekeeper came into the room with a steaming saucepan, two bowls, a jug of milk and water, which she set on a low table between our chairs. Then she took a pair of glasses and a bottle of Powers from a press, and withdrew.
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